


tonight, we are a hurricane

by bleuest



Category: Durarara!!
Genre: Bittersweet, Dark Romance, M/M, Second POV, Shizaya - Freeform, Translation, implicit PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-14
Updated: 2016-12-14
Packaged: 2018-09-08 14:15:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8848228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bleuest/pseuds/bleuest
Summary: you both move like a chaotic symphony without a conductor in the lead
  a translation of moonwaltz's  work





	

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [tonight, we are a hurricane](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8736886) by [moonwaltz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonwaltz/pseuds/moonwaltz). 



> i hope i did [moonwaltz](http://archiveofourown.org/users/moonwaltz/pseuds/moonwaltz)'s beautiful piece justice

  _.you are at the top of my lungs._

You have never let Izaya dance, not with the wind, not with the _cold_ of the wind, the colours of the sky an unchanging backdrop viewed through your glasses’ cut of lenses. Yet for this once, you let him. Letting him—a mistake, but you’ll never be free of mistakes anyway, so why make a fuss about this one?

 _Because this time, it’s Izaya_ , you think. _Dancing_ , you add, as the sky’s colours deviate from its monotony (dammit, you can’t even see anything else other than the world’s hues reflected in his eyes).

Because this time, his switchblade doesn’t pierce through your skin—not that his blade will ever be able to wound you; he doesn’t need to try to know that. The problem is, while the knife contemplates on its uselessness in luring you into your defeat, Izaya’s sharp gaze tears into your skin, slowly lacerates and pries open your chest only to home in the corner you place your heart in.

You feel it. Yes, yes, you feel it creep like oxygen in your veins, passing by each one of the cells in your body, taking control, dominating. You feel it, like wrath, like _wrath_ , but so many times more intense, so many times more frightening, for you aren’t in control over what your senses, what each and every one of your neurons yearn to do.

You let him exhale a breath as he dances. Just once, before you steal his breath away. His movements slow down, which you don’t like. But your breaths mingle into one, which you like, so you decide to not stop there.

He shivers when you pull his nape close. He is still shivering after you draw back your hand from the warmth of his skin.

“You’re afraid, huh?” your whisper is as thin as the wind in his ear.

You say that, even though you are the one terrified. Terrified that if the moon were to disintegrate and fall apart on Izaya’s apartment, all of Ikebukuro would come to know what the two of you does.

But more than that, even more than that, the truth is, you are terrified that you don’t have the will to end it.

And yet even more than that, you are terrified that when your senses return without so much as a warning, then you would—at that very second—end it.

He tries to return your whisper with an intimidating smirk on his lips. The funny thing is, for this night, perhaps just this one night, he couldn’t display the simplest of his lies. Not to you; not when your fingers need not move an inch to touch his skin; not when his body belongs to not only him, but you, too.

His smirk cannot fool you, for the reddening of his cheeks cannot be attributed to the cold, his eyelids a curtain draped to conceal windows, for it’s the truth; his eyes are windows to a whole new universe you’ve never seen before.

He throws his stare elsewhere, anywhere but to your direction.

“You’re afraid,”—the affirmation hangs in the air, but you let all of your desperation land on that enticing neck, on the open curve of those shoulders, on all the things that defines him—“you’re afraid.”

“Aren’t you the one who’s afraid?”

You’re both afraid. There—shouldn’t that be the consensus? He’s scared of being hurt and you’re afraid to hurt him. He’s afraid that you’ll stop while you’re afraid that he’ll want you to stop. And as those thoughts circle in your mind, or his, or both, or neither, you sift through his deepest secrets and not once does he rebuff your actions or your touch.

Your fingers travel over the map of his body, straight down the cliff of his chin, turning at the crossroads of his clavicles, round and round, marking the spots you’ve visited, _just like a map._ He clutches tightly the back of your head—for a brief moment—before letting his hand fall loose and skim down to your waist, then lightly glide to encircle your wrist.

You both move like a chaotic symphony without a conductor in the lead, hurried as if chased by time. Time! Of course! There is no more time. It lasts only up to this night. Just for this night, ego and pride lie powerless in the face of lust’s passion, hate lurking and snarling behind the fire of this love. Just for this night, let you, him—the both of you—abandon all teachings and let apostasy carve away your path.

For when tomorrow comes you and him will have to return to your lives; where you will once more cross swords. For when tomorrow comes your egos and prides will reappear, and hate will once more smother you with its smoke and ashes. But that is how it’s supposed to be. It’s how things are meant to be. You are each other’s nemesis and it’s a fact that will never be allowed to change. Even if the moon disintegrates and falls apart on this apartment, or even if you yourself disintegrate and fall apart from all his bewitchery, this very night.

“Yes. I’m afraid.”

You kiss an eyelid close, both uncertain as to who said the words first. But that doesn’t matter—for you both understand, for neither of you cares anymore.

* * *

You won’t let Izaya dance underneath Ikebukuro’s skies. But once upon a time you let his image dance—in your mind, in your heart, in your soul—and from there he never takes a single step to leave.


End file.
